


don't let me cave in

by Cirkne



Series: you could tell that I was a mess [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Grieving, M/M, POV Richie Tozier, POV Second Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 05:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirkne/pseuds/Cirkne
Summary: They make you leave his body.





	don't let me cave in

You dream of this, you do. You are carrying his body out of the house and they are screaming for you to hurry. He is heavy in your arms, his blood is covering your hands. No one told you he’d still be warm when you are made to leave him. You hate them, you hate them. You wake up covered in sweat. You want to scream his name until you are worthy of saying it again. 

You cancel the tour. Mike calls every week to check in. You keep throwing up. You keep forgetting that he is dead. You left him. You were holding him and you left him. And you did all this so that you could stay alive. Bill sends you the rough draft of his new book. You mail it back. Does it matter if you’re alive anymore? One of them had to tell his wife. An accident, a car crash. A spike through his chest and his blood on your hands. His blood on your clothes. His blood in your mouth.

Beverly no longer has nightmares about this but you tell her, still. Over the phone, she asks what happens after you get him out. You hang up. You wake up before you ever do. You wake up when the house collapses in on itself. You go with him. You should have gone with him. You hate them for dragging you away. You love him, you loved him, you left him for dead.

You keep hearing his voice. His last words. How fucking fortunate of you that he’d want to waste his last breath on a joke at your expense. He was always funnier than you. He was always the reason you wanted to make anyone laugh in the first place. Was, was, was. You can’t even remember his laugh now. You think about the walls of the Neibolt house collapsing in on themselves and feel like that same thing is happening to your insides. 

They make the jokes now. Nothing ever feels funny anymore. You hold your head underwater for as long as you can manage, you lift your hands to watch them shake. You haven’t talked to your mother in four, maybe five years. You call to ask if any of your old stuff is still there. You drive all the way back. Some song on the radio makes you burst into tears. Mike’s all the way in fucking Florida by now. You stand in front of the remains of the Neibolt house. Your body stands in front of the remains of the Neibolt house. _You_ are back inside, you never left. You died with him as you should have. 

In your old room, amongst the furniture they bought to replace your things, you find boxes of yearbooks and comics, of postcards. Your old glasses are there. Three hair ties, cinema tickets. None of it has ever been his. You load the boxes in your car and say you cannot stay when your mother asks you to. You wish, like Ben, you had kept something to remind you of him for twenty-seven years. 

You find a picture of him in one of the yearbooks. The way you remember him best, thirteen and loud and annoyed with you for one thing or another. He’s wearing a red shirt. He’s smiling like he doesn’t know how to. You get his body out. You make it. You are holding him and he doesn’t come alive. He has gone cold and stiff and in your dream you are convinced that you have to carry him all the way home with you. You wake up. You do not know where this home is.

Your manager shows up to tell you about the five stages of grief. There’s no therapy for this, you snap when he tries to suggest it. You throw a plate in the general direction of his feet to get him to leave. You don’t pick up when Mike calls. You keep dreaming of him and he’s always dead. He’s always dead. He’s always fucking dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. They call this a panic attack, you think. You cannot breathe and you hope it kills you. 

In the fifth draft of your suicide note, you say that it should have been you. In the end, he had someone waiting for him at home and you didn’t. That’s as far as you get. You sit on the fire escape and never work up the courage to jump.

They kick down your goddamn door when you refuse to open it. You say something about being kidnapped as Ben’s putting your seatbelt on for you in what you will later recognize as Mike’s car and none of them laugh. You think you sleep for most of the drive there. Bill’s kitchen. Beverly’s hands in your hair. They cook for you. No one has cooked for you since you were a kid. They cook for you. 

_Richie,_ Bill says in that voice of his. Like he knows exactly what he’s talking about, like he knows better than you. Richie, he died protecting you, that’s how he would have wanted it. Fuck you, you bite but it’s too late. He’s right, he’s right, he wraps his arms around your shoulders when you start sobbing. Protecting you, protecting you, you have loved him your entire life.

Mike reads you the draft you mailed back to Bill. You’re all there. Different names, sure, but you are. He writes about you with all the love in the world. This is the home you had to carry the body back to in your dream. This is the eulogy none of you got to read. 

You dream of this, you do. You are thirteen and he is holding your hand. He is warm against you, he is laughing. He keeps saying your name. He puts his hand on your chest. He’s covered in light. He pushes you, lightly, he is smiling. This is a memory, you realize. You have been here before. You have felt affection bursting out of your chest. Back then, of course, you had turned it into a joke.

You wake with his name on your lips. 

“Eddie,” your voice in the dark of Bill’s living room and no answer. “I’m in love with you,” you have never said this before. You will never again say it and mean it the way you do now. No answer but something in your chest opens. You remember the sound of his laugh again.

**Author's Note:**

> no way in hell that richie doesn't feel like eddie's death is his fault, so here's my comeback after nine months of not writing anything presentable 
> 
> title is from don't let me cave in by the wonder years


End file.
